Opis ebooka Supernovae (English edition) - Elga Frigo

On the eve of her first working day, about herself she mainly knows the goals, to emerge, and the flaws: geek and hard worker, rigid and perfectionist, angry and proud, short-sighted and naive, poor but not selfish, anything but stupid, indulgent with others, too severe with herself. So everything goes wrong, except one thing, maybe two. That first day she meets a boy who seems perfect for her, desiring her, the synthesis of all her dreams, a mix of joy and possibility, even malice and cunning, even the distraction she’s afraid of. What to do? Someone under the same roof helps her to understand her best, the one it’s time to give light, thus exploring also his dark personality, as deep and passionate. Will she make to focus what she wants more? Sense or sensibility, love or fun, light or darkness, charming prince or black angel? And at work? She will find her way among chaos guided only by her honest determination? To know more, look for me on Facebook.

The End

The End

Some say the world will
end to nothing, as the energy freed by the Big Bang is immense but
not infinite; others that it will be forever, because the universe
stubbornly tries to renew itself and sooner or later it will also
succeed to overcome its own limits.

One or the other is not so
important, as my end will come however first. And perhaps the
destination is the same for everyone and it’s just the scale of
matter and time to change. I heard several times scientists saying
that, I’ve also some vague scholastic memories: the less the mass
of a body, the greater the speed it can transform itself, but the
laws determining its destiny are almost always the same.

The key of everything then seems to
be the mass, the true essence we’re all made, whether living beings
or not is not so crucial, after all only that dark depth
counts.

So the solution of the mystery
doesn’t lie necessarily in the sky, even looking at something
nearer and easier could be enough. Maybe using a telescope, a
microscope, or just nude eyes is not so different, what really
matters is just the honesty we let go in looking at.

So those who say it will end to
nothing are right.

Or maybe not.

Because there are also supernovae,
grandiose phenomena taking envy from the Big Bang, sources of
energy and mothers of new heavenly bodies, able of subverting the
rules already written, up to affirm new ones, until to trace new
boundaries and with them new life possibilities.

Randomness governing the cosmos is
at the end the greatest of certainties, everything can still
happen.

And if it’s true that universe
doesn’t know the faith, for sure it remains a place pervaded by
boundless hope.

-10

Just dust

The beginning is never
promising.

On the contrary disordered and
seemingly inconclusive, chaotic, better, entropic. Maybe even
competitive.

Beauty and elegance are widely
missing and there’s no clue suggesting any evolution for the
better.

Inside interstellar nebulae, big
clouds made of dust and rarefied gases, mainly poor and light
chemical elements, especially helium and hydrogen, there’s a great
ferment but the chaos dismantles matter faster than it can put it
together. Attempts and attempts leading to nothing, simply
saturating time and space.

It’s unknown how long this phase
dominated by apparent nowhere could last, probably something that,
if evaluated according to human myopic metrics, looks like an
unsustainable eternity.

But inert matter and dark void
don’t suffer the wait, though prolonged to infinity, since they
have no conscience about it.

Here’s another skilful stratagem at
the basis of the casual evolution of the universe, only patience is
rewarded.

Friday, 19th February 1993

"She’s not bread & salami. She’s water & soap.

She’s an intelligent and sensitive
person, notable presence and education. She’s introverted but I
don’t think weak. She has a particular personal story; she has also
a legally protected status, we’ll save money if we hire her
and..."

But how it’s possible that a woman
working as a personnel recruiter in one of the largest
multinationals in the world forgets to close the door while she’s
introducing his colleague to the candidate’s profile he’ll have to
meet in a matter of minutes and who’s sitting in the waiting room
only a few meters away?!

That wasn’t all, my smart
interviewer had a tone of voice sounding like a trumpet blast; the
semi-open door could therefore be an intentional choice, since with
such a voiceprint she’d have however broken the sound barrier. Also
my pessimistic side wanted to contribute to the debate suggesting
that, when companies of that size are looking for an insignificant
temporary worker, confidentiality isn’t so important; doors open or
closed it doesn’t matter, better to save energies when they are
really needed.

After that encouraging beginning my
potential boss completely sealed the only way of access to his
thoughts, a clear sign that my scepticism that time had a bit
exaggerated. While their conversation were going on towards unknown
destinations, I reviewed what furtively heard: ‘water & soap’?
Strange, but I liked it, as not being considered a salami sandwich;
even on my character they did a pretty good job. I interpreted
those words as a certain predisposition to hire me, confirmed by
the fact that, because of my past still present, I was available at
a discounted price.

While I was navigating through all
those considerations the door suddenly opened and a big man
dressing a refined blue suit appeared in front of me in a hurry,
panting; he stared at me from the top of his bulky size, the long
arms lying on the soft hips and the prominent belly almost touching
my nose.

I followed him until a meeting room
at the bottom of a long corridor, after having dodged two open
little wells full of uncovered cables, where some technicians were
at work; I avoided also an open ladder positioned under a false
ceiling, for sure recently installed, where an electrician was
putting some spotlights. Last, I greeted a sweaty and smelly
painter stacking different paint buckets in preparation of who
knows what a pictorial masterpiece.

"Please, sit down where you
prefer."

I took off my coat and I instantly
obeyed.

"Would you like a coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"Anything else, water?"

"No, thanks."

I was serious, ready for the duel,
maybe he was having fun in those seemingly innocuous questions.

He returned after less than a
minute.

"Sorry for the chaos but we just
moved and there’s still a lot of work to do."

The echo of a drill swinging on the
wall behind me gave more truth to his words.

In the meantime he had already
guzzled his coffee, sinking without grace into a leather armchair,
where his relaxed abdomen struggled to find the space needed below
the crystal oval table. He made a gesture getting me curios: he
grabbed the edge of the shelf, inches on the upper side and the
rest of the big hands semi hidden under its satin surface; that
firm and steady grip suggested me aggressiveness. Better to be
careful.

"Well, would you like to tell me
something about you?"

I still obeyed, telling him the
little information available on my CV of university student,
economics faculty, looking for a title for her graduation thesis.
My exposure lasted a little, I had immediately the impression he
wasn’t listening, the more he was watching, me. He hadn’t brought a
copy of my profile with him, I was just a nuisance to quickly get
rid of.

Another drilling noise reopened our
conversation:

"May I ask you a question?"

I was ready, it wasn’t my first job
interview. The most probable curiosity he had to satisfy was my
strengths and weaknesses, or career expectations.

"What was the most difficult moment
of your life?"

I felt a pain on my chest, but I
had already heard that question too several times; without further
hesitation I replied:

"No one in particular."

He was still investigating me, as
if he weren’t satisfied of my answer. He didn’t ask more but it was
clear he was still working on the subject on his own. I was still
serious, too much, almost impenetrable; when I thought again about
it, I got sorry about my closed attitude, at the end that man
didn’t deserve it.

The gong starting our next round
took the form of an hammer blow.

"Well, now I'm going to tell you
something about us and the job offer you applied for."

Did I apply? For sure not.

Anyway I nodded, he prepared
himself for a long prose.

"My name is Miguel, Miguel
Dominguez, CEO Italy of this casino. Born in 1951, forty-two years
old, unmarried, not separated or divorced, no children but many
vices” then he looked at me smiling. I returned with a sunny
expression.

"I came to Italy last year to
manage this business project; I’ve Spanish origins, surely you’ve
already understood from my accent."

I didn’t comment but the more he
spoke the more I relaxed, certainly he noticed.

"The company, as you already know,
produces software, more precisely, it’s the world's first producer
of software for personal computers. The business is rising so fast,
the nineties will be remembered as the era of home computers and
therefore the demand of applications for supporting hardware is
every day increasing, both for companies and privates.

The business philosophy is to
explore all the possible development areas, without neglecting
anyone. We sell many products, our top are the operating systems,
but we’re leaders also in home and office applications and
programming languages. Very promising is the video game industry
and also the hardware sector could be of our interest, especially
the mobile market, but not immediately. We believe that the
digitization will have an exponential development over the years,
radically changing not only our way of working but also living;
shortly there won’t be around a piece of paper, as well as a
picture or a movie.

Being a young market and thus
partially unknown, there’s a lot of mistrust during the purchasing
phases, especially by privates, to change is not an easy mental
process. Trying to overcome these barriers we heavily invest in
marketing. Motivation and skills are mainly given by the
headquarters, our marketing department is the envy of our
competitors, who try every day to steal us our most promising guys
offering them hyperbolic salaries. We cooperate a lot also with
universities, we want best brains choose us. We have won several
awards for our innovative capacity, we’re not only the industry
leaders but more generally of the communication market. My
marketing manager is the best in Italy and not only here; from the
headquarters they’ve tried several times to convince him to work
directly for them but I opposed and I’ll never stop doing. Now he’s
necessary above all here.

The headquarters are located in the
United States, Silicon Valley, California, but several years ago
several branches in France, Germany and England were opened,
specializing them for sales in the European market. Ireland was
chosen as the first manufacturing site outside United States. In
Italy we’ve been working for ten years with two locations, Milan
and Rome, for a total of about two hundred employees, with an
average age less than thirty-five. Today I’m the oldest and you the
youngest.”

Another short smiling look between
us.

"The growth has been realized
recruiting new staff, but also through mergers with promising
companies already operating on the sector; all this has contributed
to increase the internal pressure level. It’s told around we’re a
very attractive company, especially for young people, and we’re
also competing for an important prize as the best place to work.
Truly, if today you’d ask here, maybe my guys would give you a
different answer, because with these growth rates the structure is
constantly under stress. My philosophy is clear to everybody: first
we grow, then we hire, not vice versa. Those who disagree can go to
work for our competitors, blowing up like
spumante stoppers one after another. This is a volatile
market, with high technological and economic development rates; a
wrong investment and in a short time we risk to go belly-up."

Coal expression, mute and
impetuous, almost threatening, then a new dive into the
narration:

"That's why we're looking for
business analysts or controllers; the Italian market is
demonstrating a more conservative attitude than expected regarding
technology and sales are struggling to take off, therefore it's
important to have always in mind the right figures before moving
any step and also from the US are putting us a lot of pressure
regarding money expenditure. Until today I’ve personally taken care
of these analysis, in cooperation with the marketing director;
whoever will cover this position will have also the lucky to work
close to us from morning to night."

The lucky, yes. He told me that
long story without distracting neither for a second, at the same
time not taking care of my reactions. While he was going on with
his interminable speech, sometimes I nodded trying to interact, to
show him I was following his words, that I was interested, all this
useless; he was completely absorbed by his words and fully unaware
of my intellectual and emotional feelings.

My brain talked me about an
intelligent and passionate man, at least as much as egocentric; it
was evident from the way he moved his hands and articulated the
messages, from the expertise applied to mix glances, words and
breaths.

Mr. Dominguez, however, was all but
beautiful: his ink hair was uncombed, as well as his olive
complexion marked by various overtime wrinkles; I counted at least
four on his forehead, also some thick crow feet beside his black
eyes. When he spoke his face sagging to the sides didn’t transmit
fineness or courtesy, his eyebrows curled, and occasionally he used
to clear his raspy voice, making my veins shake. Though it was
early in the morning, his light blue shirt was already crumpled and
the knot of his blue tie white polka dot copied to Berlusconi
undone. As regards his evident desperate need of fitness lessons, I
think it’s more appropriate to say no more.

The most similar likeness found no
comfort as usual in the zodiac, but in the animal kingdom:
something between the bison and the gorilla.

It doesn’t matter: first of all he
resulted to me ‘bravo’, my inexperience banally classified him so
and according to that first instinctive judgment all the rest of my
person moved.

I left him a few seconds to
recover, although he didn’t seem to need them; indeed:

"So what do you think about
it?"

"Undoubtedly very interesting, both
for my thesis as well as future working perspective."

Maybe he was expecting some
compliments more, but unfortunately I wasn’t that kind of person,
it was important he understood it immediately.

"So are you interested in our
proposal?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Well, then see you on Monday,
March 1st, internship until September, then we’ll see."

As he was speaking, he stared at
me, then he got up to reach the other thousand tasks surely waiting
for him beyond the exit. Unfortunately I was going to displease
him, making him loose other precious time:

"I'm sorry, but the internship
doesn’t interest me."

He widely opened his jaw and his
eyebrows almost touched, I continued to expose my reasons:

"The university spoke me about a
temporary work, no internship."

He was annoyed, he’d have soon
invested me like a fully loaded TIR. He immediately shifted into
gear:

"You can do nothing."

"I understand, but considering my
private situation, the one we’ve just talked about, I can’t afford
to work for free."

"This is your problem, not
mine."

"This is you who contacted me
through the university, not the contrary."

Just to be precise.

"We contact dozens of candidates
every day."

"I know, but I’m the only one with
an average marks of 108/110 before the thesis. You’re right: I can
do nothing, but I can quickly learn. And I’ve a legally protected
status, you’ll benefit of a significant saving on my social
contribution, so I’ll cost you however less than another
candidate.”

That was the maximum I could say
not crossing the courtesy area, the final decision remained to him.
It wasn’t natural for me to act so presumptuously, but
unfortunately I had no choice. I tried that speech more and more
times at the mirror, to be sure to recite it in the right way at
the right moment.

That multinational company
certainly didn’t lack the money to honour my miserable salary;
furthermore my subconscious was perhaps already carrying out a
subtle ideological battle: the work must be paid, little because
not qualified, but it must however be paid. Really a market leader:
fake ethics artfully disguised with the conspiracy of the
marketing. Luckily I had chosen the finance world, figures are more
difficult to camouflage.

Mr. Dominguez was upset; it was
clear it wasn’t his habit to discuss again decisions already taken,
especially at a such low level. His poorest resource however didn’t
seem to be money, rather time; we were both standing, his hand on
the handle of the door, uncertain about what to do and at the same
time already projected towards who knows what vital
appointment.

"As you wish."

He told me that with an assassin
look, certainly the kind of man who doesn’t like to lose, even the
most ridiculous challenge.

"Many thanks."

"I hope it's worth it.
Goodbye."

I had already won, I didn’t comment
further.

Another loud hammer blow sealed the
conclusion of our first meeting.

*****

Still on my bike I crossed the
arched entrance, dodging several hens flying around the courtyard
and after having greeted the neighbour hanging the laundry I headed
towards my door house, the one located at the ground floor.

Given the winter rigors still under
way, the fireplace was on and the room welcomed me with the classic
burnt woody aroma. Exactly at that moment mum was feeding the flame
with new logs; while I came in she immediately turned:

"Ciao, how did it go?"

It was almost two. Her voice
expressed curiosity and nothing else; she was always so when she
woke up after the night shift, tired. In a corner of the kitchen
also grandma
looked at me, anxiously waiting for the answer.

Being patient, me?! I was
twenty-four, twenty-four springs during which those women non-stop
supported me and didn’t seem displeased by the perspective to do it
more. Working as two steamrollers they financed my academic
project; mum, factory worker, opted for a three shifts job, to
collect more money staying at the assembly line at night. It wasn’t
enough, when she was at home she helped grandma, fiscally
undeclared dressmaker at the service of the whole country. Mum paid
the rent, grandma the university fees, with the rest was spent for
other necessary things, usually coming around zero at the end of
the month. That's why I was so good with figures, I made a lot of
necessary additions and subtractions since my childhood to
survive.

When I finished the high school I
wanted to find a job, like many of my ex-companions by the way, but
they didn’t even want to hear it; they hadn’t even allowed me to
find a stable job during university years.

‘School or work', so they often
repeated in tandem.

My female parents allowed me only
occasional jobs between an exam and another, when I helped grandma
with the sewing or I gave extra lessons to the students of the
neighbourhood. And on the weekend, if I had really accomplished all
my homework, I could distract myself with something more.

I was their main investment, always
protected and never held against; mum and grandma had nothing to
envy to Miguel Dominguez’s alleged managerial skills, nothing but
welfare.

The count of my university exams
hadn’t been the classic one, but a non-stop countdown; just a few
days before I came to zero and I was unsettled like a crazy horse.
The only thought of taking again a book on my hands gave me the
nausea and every day still lacking to the economic independence
made me sick to death. Not so easy my temper, similar to mum’s one
much more than I could admit.

Mum Lucia is Capricorn, while I’m
Virgin, it’s not a matter of education or wickedness then, it’s
simply the zodiac against us. Both of us are land signs but we
react to planetary influences in a completely different way; I
become fire while her ice, but how could we argue with two
personalities so different? Indeed we don’t and often we don’t
talk, that is, I always have to do as she commands.

Better to forget then that proverb
she tirelessly recited every time new sparkles arose between
us:

'A good knowledge, a good
silence',

like a compass stubbornly always
pointing to the cold north.

Grandma Tea has a completely
different character, she’s Aries. Less rigid, more solar and
passionate. When mum exaggerated with her stiffness, I took refuge
in Tea and finally found comfort, but never changes of direction
comparing to Lucia's military orders. There has never been
confusion of roles in my all female family: the general was mum,
grandma the second commander.

Grandma got widow when I was just
one, I don't have any memory about my life with grandpa and maybe
it's better. Born in Emilia-Romagna, grandpa Anselmo enrolled as a
young man in the army where, perhaps mainly thanks to a rare
notable appearance which it’s told I had largely benefited, he
entered in the private guard of the king. During that period he met
grandma, in those days dressmaker and lady-in-waiting of a countess
nearby Venaria. She told me that the beauty of his bright eyes,
tall stature and blond hair, reached her to the opposite side of
the ballroom where she was, as she saw him entering during a gala
evening reserved to nobility. For him it was the same love at first
sight, maybe; he invited her to dance and after a few months of
gallant courtship they got married.

At the end of the second world war,
after the exile of the royal family, my progenitors moved to
Lombardia, where was offered to grandpa a job as a guardian of an
imposing structure of the province, an old Napoleonic villa located
in the northern suburbs of Milan. The villa, which over the years
experienced decadence, was surrounded by a large park after
abandoned; on the sides of the main building there were several
houses once hosting its staff, modest residences known by all as
'the court' but in fact all but a palace, where my closest
relatives settled as renters, sharing courtyard, henhouse,
vegetable garden, and all the rest with other public employees,
similarly veterans of the war or other misadventures, in any case
all but wealthy.

Grandpa Anselmo, notable appearance
apart, wasn’t made of sugar and honey. Monarchic fighter before,
old-fashioned parent after, austere in the conducting of the family
life, often uncompromising; mum and grandma didn’t talk much about
him, but from the few words exchanged I realized that sharing the
same roof with a fallen count wasn’t an easy business for them.
Perhaps that was the reason why his sons moved abroad so soon
looking for a job, perhaps for the same motive mum searched for new
opportunities so young. His early departure for infarction surely
procured them a lot of pain, but it also preserved them from what
they should have suffered if he had been still present until a more
venerable age. In addition, grandpa, still living surrounded by the
illusion of a monarchic luxury actually completely dissolved, loved
to spend more than he earned, especially on card games, and at his
death left several debts to my family, already so hardly challenged
by my premature birth. My aunts periodically sent us money for the
debt payment, but the most remained on Lucia and Tea's shoulders
and therefore on mines too.

That past by the noble outlines
conditioned also my childhood and adolescence; my education was
grandma’s responsibility, who, with uncommon grace and loving
commitment, taught me most of the etiquette and all good manners
typical of high ranking ladies. And not only that,
unfortunately.

"Eat, or it gets cold” mum
said.

"But it’s not too much that pasta
for her Lucia? Indeed, at her age she shouldn’t eat anymore, it
finishes all on her bum."

Grandma Tea indeed inherited from
the fascism a controversial concept of hegemony of the Aryan race
and body cult, better to overcome then her level of tolerance of
ethnicities different from her one, if not racism however snobbery.
Coherently, overweight has always been considered a criminal
offense, redeemable only through immediate adherence to the hardest
fasting.

Between daughter and granddaughter
a glance, but we knew it was better not to answer. And I had more
important things on my head:

"Mum, it's only for six months. You
can stop with night shifts."

"I go on for a while, money will be
necessary now you’ll start working. Is it distant?"

"No, I’ll get there by train."

"And how do you go to the
station?"

"By bike. Down in the morning and
up at evening. I'll do some fitness, useful also for my growing
bum."

She smiled a bit, then new
questions:

"And what if it rains?"

"Now the beautiful season is coming
and we haven’t to think about it, later I'll look for a car."

"I’ll ask at the factory if someone
has a used one to sell."

"Other expenses, but since now it
shouldn’t be the contrary? By the way, by when do we have to pay
the rent?"

"Next week, we're fine."

"Did you tell them upstairs there
are some water infiltrations from the roof and when it rains the
ceiling gets wet?"

"Yes, but you know, these are old
houses, their administration is now so confused. I can never find
someone to talk to."

"Yes, but the money for the rent,
you know, we always know where to send them, and in advance!"

She added nothing but her silence
resembled a rebuke.

I calmed down, meanwhile other food
on my plate was served. I quickly ended up eating, mum was already
washing the dishes and only mines were lacking for closing
everything and going to rest. Grandma and I greeted her as she was
climbing the stairs leading to the bedroom. I peeled an orange
leaning on the kitchen, while grandma continued to work under the
natural light filtering from the window. Out the weather was still
undecided, a bit like me in that same period.

"You’ll need new clothes to go to
work."

"Okay, grandma."

"Okay? Well-educated people in
Italy say that's fine, thank you."

"That's fine, thank you
grandma."

My monarchical inheritance indeed
implied other extravagant habits, especially anti-American ones.
For instance, never seen at home neither a drop of Coke, only
national Chinotto and only on Sunday, for lunch. Under our roof
also all the other symbols of American consumerism were looked with
great distrust; never chewed a chewing gum, at least at home, or
used hair gel, and for having the first pair of jeans I had to tack
one of the most draining post-war negotiations.

"Later I’m calling Ines. I already
told her you’d have started working and you’d have needed new
clothes; she must have already put aside something."

Ines was a wealthy widow living in
the city centre, habitual consumer of grandma's tailoring services.
Our top customer had a lively social life and she often liked to
involve also grandma, in the same way a great lover of ballroom
dancing. Ines, lucky her, had an huge classy wardrobe, allowing her
never disfiguring in that urban life made of abundant sociality.
Ines loved dressing up and despite the years had a tonic body
permitting her to show off apparel incidentally exactly of my same
size, so frequently contributing with her fake scraps to the
enrichment of my more modest fashion collection.

"Skirts or pants?"

"Grandma: pants, have pity on
me."

"Pants? But you’re not a man."

"Grandma, please don’t restart this
conversation. Do you see me going to the station by bike with the
skirt?"

"I always went to work to the
factory by bike, and with the skirt. What do you believe? And a
woman must always remain a woman, even at work."

"Grandma, times have changed” I
kindly reproached her.

"Yes, they've changed, for the
worse."

I tried to accommodate the
situation:

"All right, then please ask to Ines
if she has some skirts too. And thank her from my side. I'd like to
visit her, it’s a long time we don’t see each other."

"Saturday we’ll go dancing, why
don’t you come with us?"

"Me? No, please."

"It's a shame, there are always
such handsome men."

"Perhaps for you."

"No dear, also for you. If only you
let me doing every now and then."

I didn’t comment further. And
thankfully she changed topic:

"And have you got shoes?"

"Yes."

"Anyway, I’ll ask to Ines if she
has some pairs she no longer uses, maybe high heels. With the skirt
they’re absolute necessary. I saw it also the other day in the news
on TV."

"News? What are you saying?"

"Yes, the weather presenter dressed
a long skirt and a pair of high heeled shoes so beautiful. It's a
pity her hips are so wide."

"Grandma!"

"It's the truth, she should be
immediately on a diet if she wants to go on working on TV. If I
notice it, let alone the others."

"Maybe she's the best in her job
and nobody cares about it."

"Impossible, everyone notices those
things, especially men."

Grandma Tea was so, sincere until
to offend. I often spent my time with her that way, chatting over
and over, scoffing for the flaws of the whole humanity without
really never hurting it. Even that ugly afternoon I felt in the
same habit; I changed my clothes, I took a chair, wire, needle and
glasses, and I started working in her company.

*****

After the dinner the doorbell rang,
Fiamma.

She carried ice-cream and two
tablespoons, I invited her in my room upstairs.

"It’s cold here, why?"

"Maybe, the heater is off."

"Didn’t you pay the bill?"

"Don’t be so funny, now I'll turn
it on."

I left her for a second for
executing, she took advantage of the situation for commenting
more:

"I should have carried an hot
chocolate, not the ice-cream."

"Do you want us to go at your
place?"

"Are you joking? Don’t you remember
I share my house with other five people? In the evening when
there’re all at home my ears blow up. At least here there’s
silence."

Actually it wasn’t really true. In
the apartment beside mine our neighbours had just become parents
and the new born creature, female, screamed like the firefighter's
siren. I ever hated little children, so much noise and little
satisfaction.

"So how's it going today?"

"Well, they hired me. I’m starting
on March, 1st.”

"Great! And what's your job?"

"Sincerely I didn’t understand.
However I’ll start then I’ll see. Meanwhile I can work on my
thesis, so I’ll finish the university."

"Do they pay you well?"

"A misery."

"Then it's like me at the
supermarket."

"Worse."

"Is it far?"

"No, I’ll go there by train. I’ll
take the northern line."

"If you want I can take you to the
station in the morning, we go in the same direction. At least when
it rains.”

"Thank you Amy."

"And how is it there? Nice
guys?"

For a moment I saw Mr Dominguez,
tremendous shattering gap.

"I don’t know, I hope not."

Because Francesco left me just few
months before, without calling me anymore, without worrying to know
how I was or if I needed something, for instance legitimate
comfort. We were the same age and spent the last university period
together; once graduated and found a job he migrated towards new
unknown lids.

I liked him, it was the first thing
coming to my mind whenever I was asked about him.

"Don’t think to him anymore, you're
worth more than that damn selfish. He used you."

"It's not true Amy, it’s also my
fault."

But perhaps Fiamma wasn’t
completely wrong. Francesco wasn’t particularly talented, but he
compensated that lack with great dedication, even with me he
behaved in the same way. I passed him my notes and summaries,
trying to support him as much as possible, to the point he overtook
me without turning back, reaching in a lonely escape the degree,
though with marks far below mines. Once finished the university he
found a prestigious job in the city centre. After that, he changed
attitude and friends; even when we stayed together he acted as a
presumptuous, he didn’t have enough time to see me, maybe just a
revenge for my past behaviour. Mainly we spoke at the phone, in the
rare pauses of his upcoming career.

"Your fault? But how?"

"You know, I've always studied and
worked. I don’t know how many times he asked me to go out together
and I replied him I couldn’t."

"So?"

"I don’t know, maybe he was right.
Girls like me, it’s better if they stay single."

Francesco was Capricorn, like mum,
the evident proof astrology can’t always help to better understand
reality. Lucia was a rare woman, but she certainly loved me very
much, while with him the concept of goodness sometimes faded into
careerism, until to turn itself into dangerous cruelty. When we
were at the end of our love story, maybe to get rid of me easier,
he threw against me a bit of everything; for example I was accused
of being too planner, morbidly attached to money. He even had some
visions about me: adult and single, living in an extra luxury home,
lying on a trendy sofa, facing a fake marble fireplace, in my hands
its remote control and a plush cat for consoling myself about my
miserable loneliness of career woman. Difficult to understand what
burned me most: to have lost him or the fear his sad prophecy came
true.

Fiamma, zodiac sign Lion,
passionate and sincere, didn’t like to see me so unhappy. She
passed her hand several times in the copper tuft, then she spoke
again:

"Those with money use to talk
without restraint. And to judge who’s not in their same condition,
but they use them every time they can. Get them some bills to pay
and you’ll see how they get off!”

I didn’t comment.

"You’re the only one of us who has
made it, that one day will go away from here. And if you’ll become
rich even better. Who has never lived like us can’t understand, let
it go."

"I feel a loser."

"Because you are."

"Amy?!"

"You're talking to a girl named
Fiamma because her mother before the delivery dreamt of saving
herself from a fire. You can’t win against me!"

Better to laugh, then a final
comment of my horoscope:

"You’ll see, since now everything
will be fine."

Monday, 1st March 1993

A charming young black
woman accompanied me in a small meeting room, the clock on the wall
marked 8.45 am. Compared to the previous weeks the situation wasn’t
improved so much; several men were still working on that different
floor of the building, but at least the traps on the floor had been
closed and covered with a new carpet, made of slate squared
geometries.

After a few minutes from the open
door I saw a boy speeding; the woman escorting me deposited also
him in the same room. Once there, he took off his vest still out of
breath, then he chose to sit next to me. Perhaps to shorten the
wait, he began to look at me, then, exhibiting a perfect and
whitish teeth, approached me with great ease:

"I think we had the same idea this
morning!"

"Ah, yes” I replied more
timidly.

He realized too we were dressed in
the same way: grey suit and light blue shirt, flat shoes, no
make-up, but he was a man and I was a woman, but his dress was
probably new while mine as usual a kind concession of Ines.

"Do you start today too?"

"Yes."

"Ciao! Samuele, Sam."

"Ciao, Giulia Molinari."

"The surname is important? Do you
want to know also mine?!"

No, I wanted to know his zodiac
sign but it was a premature curiosity.

"Are you afraid?"

"A bit. And you?"

An half smile, then he continued to
study me with his beautiful face already spring dressed. That
unexpected encounter was already a first answer to Fiamma’s
question:

'Are there nice guys?'

The same evening I’d have made her
a detailed report.

While I was fantasizing about him,
the same black woman invited us to follow her in another meeting
room nearby, wider and dominated at the centre by another oval
crystal table. 'Venue Room' recited the label outside the
entrance.

We refused, impossible for both of
us to swallow any solid or liquid in that epic moment so full of
suspense. She took the opportunity to introduce herself:

"Nice to meet you, I'm
Vanessa."

She energetically shook our hands,
mixing it with other spontaneous happiness; that girl inspired
non-stop will to live, perhaps Mr. Dominguez put her there on
purpose.

"Will you work with Marco or
Fosca?”she asked with sincere curiosity. We both raised our
shoulders shaking our silent head; it was the pure truth, neither
of us knew his end, better, his beginning.

"Good luck my dears, see you soon”
she said, then our new friend left us alone, closing the door
behind her.

Sam acted as a gentleman and before
he let me sit, then he chose again the chair next to mine. He was
anxious like me but he was doing everything to hide it.

Our wait lasted very little. We
heard an increasing noise of hurried steps and after a few seconds
the door opened wide. I recognized Mr. Dominguez, behind him a
woman and a man.

"Good morning!” he cheerfully and
energetically said, then they all sit in front of us, like the
examination board during an university graduation session.

"This is Fosca Landi, finance
manager, and Marco Consonni, marketing director. In front of us we
have..."

Before he looked at me, I
immediately answered the call:

"Good morning, Giulia
Molinari."

Then it was up to Sam:

"Pleased to meet you, Samuele
Ferrari."

Mr. Dominguez made the summary of
our tasks, plus a series of considerations I forgot immediately
after.

What I’ll never forget was the
rest.

First she looked at Sam then she
turned to me. Inexpressive and tense, perhaps even disappointed
about what she was looking at. Short black hair and round steel
glasses, filtering irises equally metallic, a little French nose so
perfect that it didn’t seem real, unsuitable red fire lipstick and
long nails coordinated. Small and slim, Italian size maximum
thirty-eight, forty years old and maybe more; squeezed inside a
tiny beige satin dress, over a close-fit jacket of the same colour.
A classy outfit but sometimes also smile makes elegance.

My instinct suggested me only
troubles, but a possibility should never be denied to anyone, so I
tried a friendly expression.

She didn’t return.

Later I repeated, other refusal
came.

She seemed a bundle of nerves ready
to explode, of hunger or disgust it was impossible to know. Even
when Mr. Dominguez tried to involve her in the conversation, she
didn’t give any sign of humanity or even life, limiting herself to
a flat nodding. And the zodiac sign? Certainly something close to
the snake.

As I was overthinking about her, a
dark green blade hit me, not my eyes, my soul. I followed the glow
until meeting a penetrating and deep look, impressing me up to make
me feel spied. High and protruding forehead, pronounced cheekbones,
hollowed cheeks, linked by lips however full and vital. Short hair
and a light beard framed that oval so strong but so delicate. An
hard and cold figure, like a statue finely chiselled in the
abalone, precious as fragile, a completely colourless vision, only
softened by that warm shade which didn’t stop staring at me, made
even more intense by the contrast with the smooth ivory skin and
the thick as tidy eyebrows.

Even in clothing he didn’t concede
to himself any vanity: an anonymous black round-necked sweater
outlined the broad shoulders, then a pair of jeans equally
dark.

His body confused itself with the
back of the armchair, legs crossed, immobile and inscrutable, as if
without breath and beating, however dense of passion. His left hand
was leaning on the shelf in the pose of a pale fist; he wore a thin
white gold wedding ring, brilliant but not adherent, as if he got
slimmer after wearing it for the first time. Even the dark circles
surrounding his eyelids, by the long and thick curved lashes,
suggested me a tired physicist, like a melancholy body.

He was certainly younger than his
colleague and their common boss, but I didn’t know how much. His
tall thinness spoke me about a boy but his hidden bitterness was
the one of a mature man.

I didn’t think to the zodiac after
having observed him, an impossible exercise with such a mysterious
creature. Even if serious he didn’t want to hurt me; I felt it
since the first look and his next gestures confirmed it. When Mr
Dominguez passed him the speech about the importance of the
marketing for a company like the one they worked for, he didn’t
stay in silence like Miss Landi, but immediately took the torch,
showing great firmness and professionalism.

Even the closure of his mini talk
wasn’t bad:

"Welcome."

Mr. Dominguez approved enraptured,
while Miss Landi looked at him badly, perhaps realizing not to be
the author of that little obvious idea. But at the end he was the
creative director of the company; from her for sure the company
didn’t expect imagination, rather monotonous precision and constant
respect of the rules.

At that point Mr. Dominguez spoke
again:

"Well, both of you are hired as
business analysts.

Giulia will work with Fosca,
Samuele with Marco. I still haven’t clear ideas about the correct
positioning of the role, whether under the finance bubble or with
the head into the business from morning till night. We'll see.
Because if things won’t go right, we’ll go home soon, everybody, no
distinction of role!

Giulia and Samuele, I recommend
you: don’t become too much friends, because one of you at the end
won’t be confirmed.

And now let’s go to work, it's
late!"

Late? Nine and thirty minutes.

Miguel quickly disappeared; Fosca
and Marco followed him, than Sam and me.

"It seems you've been luckier” I
softly said to my new friend.

"I think so, however I'm going to
get you for lunch."

"And do you really think they’re
used to take breaks?!"

*****

"Wait here” Fosca ordered
me with imperious voice.

So I stood outside her office, coat
on my hands and backpack on the shoulder, waiting she revealed me
my destiny. Meanwhile, several guys, noticing my presence there,
stopped asking if I needed something and as soon as they heard her
name, they run away.

My boss came back ten minutes
later, with the first orders:

"Follow me."

We entered a long and spacious
rectangular open space, with at least ten coupled desks, large
windows on the street side, the right one. That noisy area hosted
the entire finance department headed by Fosca; the phones were
furiously ringing and there was frenzy of super work in the air.
And it wasn’t even ten. Crossing the central corridor, once at the
end, Fosca stopped and talked to me again:

"These are your colleagues,
Eleonora and Romina."

Then she disappeared directed who
knows where.

The two young gentlewomen didn’t
even stand up to greet, barely looking at me; they only emitted a
weak ‘Ciao’, having nothing to do with the education so much
recommended by mum and grandma even that crucial morning going
out.

They showed me the coat rack, then
a desk, differently from theirs located on the internal side of the
room; the table was full of messy paper and other stuff randomly
thrown on the shelf, then a strange phone, a printer, and a fax
noisy working. I wondered why I had to stay there, in front of me
there was a pair of empty clean desks next to theirs.

Once accommodated, the eldest of
the two, Eleonora, reached me bored.

"Now there’s no work for you. But
there are the phones to manage and now we'll pass you also the
switchboard. Then there's the door phone above you, you’ve to
answer to the calls, the couriers and all the others."

So that strange appliance was the
switchboard. The door phone, on the other hand, considering the
anxiety of the moment, I missed it. So I had to manage both of
them, then there was the paper on the desk, piles of accounting
documents waiting for months my enthusiasm to be finally properly
filed. Eleonora with annoyed voice and listless eyes told me how to
organize everything and I, full of adrenaline but without
block-notes and pen, mentally memorized the most possible.

What followed until lunchtime was
worse than the worst hell. A bombardment of ringtones alternating
each other without giving me respite; calls to be forwarded to the
various addressees, suppliers and related materials to be
delivered, waiting taxi-drivers, visitors to welcome at the
entrance (three floors lower, that day the lift was out of service
for maintenance), to carry in the meeting rooms, to be announced in
the correspondent offices.

Meanwhile, my not smart colleagues
laughed behind my shoulders, limiting the necessary information
with mastery, to test my ability to resist, so breaking the boredom
of their otherwise monotonous working day. Perhaps around noon the
head of marketing came nearby, because I felt a dark presence at my
side, but I was too busy to survive to recognize him
distinctly.

Exactly at one the pen of my
colleagues fell on the desk, abandoning the open space and me too,
without asking if I’d like to eat with them, but drawing at their
inexhaustible tank of rudeness they announced:

He wasn’t alone, with him a boy
more or less of our age, frizzy red hair and freckles, unpleasant
face and too many kilos, popping out under the waistcoat, third
piece of a blue navy crumpled suit, to complete the disaster an
obscene fantasy tie. Between him and Sam there was an abyss of
everything.

"Luca, Miguel's personal
assistant."

And the courtesy formulas? Where
did he leave them? He accompanied those words with an inopportune
top-down view, not only because I was still sitting while him
already standing, but above all because it was evident he really
believed to be above all. And what did I have to answer? Was he
interested to know who I was or it was enough? I took the risk of
decanting at least my name.

In the meantime Sam watched me
satisfied, his morning had been certainly more motivating than
mine. We reached a nearby bar, Luca has a speedy and curious
tongue:

"Where do you live?"

"Northern suburbs."

"Do you get here by car?"

"No, train. It's better, I live
close to the station."

"Trains are always late. And if
you’ve to work until late in the evening, you risk to get stranded.
This is not the place where you leave at six, did you notice?"

Any response seemed to me useless,
so I went on chewing my miserable sandwich.

"Where did you study?"

"Cattolica. But I'm not graduated,
I still have to write and discuss the final thesis."

"Their faculty of economics is not
renowned, Bocconi is better. I studied there, you did too Sam,
right?"

He nodded, then he winked at me, as
to suggest however good humour and relax. What an handsome boy.

"And your marks?"

Again? I tried an evasive
answer:

"Good."

But with him it was impossible:

"How much?"

He heard the answer, Sam too. Luca,
however, resumed first:

"Are you just a geek? What do you
like to do? To travel?"

"Yes, in the future I’d like
to."

"And until today where have you
been?"

I tried to let his inadequate
question fall. Sam rescued me:

"Did you travel a lot?"

Stupid people like to talk about
themselves, self-adulating, why didn’t I think to that? I started
to understand better why Sam had been assigned to the marketing
instead of me.

After several minutes of Luca's
solitary conversation, Sam spoke again:

"For us it’s time to go."

On time as a Swiss watch, another
point for him.

I got in line to pay, he reached me
again.

"Let me offer you the lunch.
Welcome to the crazy carousel, dear Giulia!” then he honoured me
with another mischievous smile. Meanwhile Luca kept talking, who
knows with whom.

Climbing the stairs to get back to
work, the thought of what was waiting for me beyond the entrance
was enough to make me feel a stabbing acid pain at the stomach. Sam
seemed to interpret my lost look; he waited Luca left, then, once
alone on the last landing, he talked:

"Giulietta, do you want me to pick
you up after? I got here by car, but if you want we can go out
together."

"Thank you Sam."

It was the first of many times.

That day I couldn’t know how much
grateful I should have been towards him during my stay in that
company.

*****

Before coming back to the torture
desk I went to the utility room located in the directional area to
take at least a block-notes and a pen. Immediately adjacent there
was Fosca’s office; the door was half closed and just by
coincidence I heard everything, this everything:

"They hired a teenager, before she
learns something it will take months and at that point Miguel will
have already sent her away” she mumbled.

"But why didn’t you hire a
senior?"

"Miguel didn’t want, cost saving
policy."

"And how are you doing now?"

"It's not my problem, she’s on her
own. I won’t lose my time with such an ignorant little girl. I put
her with the others, let's see what she can do by herself."

At that point the door opened, I
took it almost on my teeth. Fosca went out first, then other
middle-aged women, expensive but questionable fashion preferences,
sales women joining the company after a previous merge, exactly
like Fosca, someone told me after.

When they saw me they pretended to
be indifferent, so did I. Before returning to my desk however I
went to the bathroom.

There I cried a few tears, then I
thought of the great women waiting for me at home and like them I
tried to be strong. A wash to my face and again at the battle
station.

*****

The afternoon went better, never
despair.

The switchboard and the door phone
were calmer and I started to organize the archive; first I put that
mould away, faster I’d have used my time doing something better.
Eleonora and Romina meanwhile spied on me without speaking, I
pretended they didn’t exist. Method ‘mum Lucia’ in short.

Later Fosca came to my desk,
accompanied by Marco. She was anxious and didn’t stop talking, he
barely listened to her.

"Marco would like to have some talk
with you, since he didn’t meet you during the selection
phases."

Ah, and she did that?

I left my glasses on the desk and I
followed him.

Fosca, Eleonora and Romina in the
meantime were staring at me grim.

*****

"Please, sit down."

He did too, then he tried to
simulate some order on his large desk, creating a gap in the
centre, allowing him to have a complete view on me; I watched him
at work, ironically summoning the image of Moses separating the
waters of the Red Sea. Substantial difference, there was nothing
majestic to divide: scattered sheets and badly stacked files,
crumpled newspapers, gadgets of various kinds, samples packaging of
different shapes and colours, in precarious balance one on top of
another. And the small round table next to the main one wasn’t
better.

Creatives are always messy; only
the chaos generates stars, everyone knows. That's why I never had a
lot of fantasy, because mum educated me from my earliest age to be
very tidy.

On the main desk a lamp on and a
frame, but from my seat I could see only its back. On the coat rack
a black leather jacket, motorcycle style; on the windowsill several
small fatty plants by the coloured pots: fuchsia, yellow and
orange, then an ashtray full of butts.

Then I came back to him. He seemed
to be very tired, yet his gaze had the same sharp liveliness of the
morning; I still felt myself under siege and without defences.
Being caught up by some shivers, I instinctively crossed my arms on
the chest.

"So, how was the first working day
of your life?"

I bitterly sighed, then I tried to
recover objectivity:

"It was hard. I think it's
normal."

"Did you like what you did?"

What did I have to answer? If I had
lied he’d have immediately noticed, but even complaining didn’t
sound good to me. I just shook my head, probably my broken
expression reinforced the concept.

He understood everything but
preferred to change subject:

"Would you like to tell me
something about you?"

As requested, I recited the poem,
while his restless face didn’t leave me neither for a moment.

"Congratulations."

Eh? About what?

"I imagine you worked hard to get
such results. You did a very good job."

Was it really a compliment what I
was listening to?

"However it's not easy to make you
talk."

His mouth creased, something like a
smile. I couldn’t modulate any sound, he didn’t seem to be bother
about that.

"May I ask you a question
more?"

"Yes, sure."

"If you think to yourself about ten
years, what do you see?"

"Ah, I wouldn’t know. I’ll
certainly be more experienced than today, more autonomous, I
believe."

His head slightly bent, got
positively curious, it seemed to me.

"Argue it more."

"I don’t know, the content of my
job is still undefined and therefore evaluating what professional
perspectives it will grant to me it’s not so easy. For sure I’m
curious, full of enthusiasm for novelties, I like to observe,
listen, learn. Perhaps this will allow me to grow more than I can
imagine now."

His enigmatic face held back
another funny fold.

"So it was at the university?"

"Partially yes, I think so."

"Do you know anyone who has high
marks like yours?"

"No, I don’t."

But where did he want to go?

"In your opinion, what could happen
if you applied the same commitment put in the study in the
work?"

Realized his intent, I replied:

"At the university individuality
counts, there’s a direct relationship between commitment and
outcome. Probably much more is needed here: ability to deal with
others, to influence their opinions, in short, propensity to human
relationships, leadership attitude."

"Sure, all uncommon qualities."

Difficult to interpret his severe
gaze, however my answer contributed to arise inside him new desires
of inquiry:

"Always in your opinion, how old am
I?"

What an embarrassment.

"Thirty, I think."

"Thirty. Are you sure you don’t
want to try again?"

"I think to have already done
enough damages, thank you."

He laughed again on his own, then
the verdict:

"I'm thirty-one, that's seven years
more than you, right?"

"Yes."

"Is it so much or not?"

"Oh, I don’t..."

"Are you afraid to tell me I'm
old?"

"No, no, absolutely not” I clumsy
replied.

"Lucky me then” he said relaxing on
the armchair.

Then there was a long pause, as if
he was expecting a few comments more. Which didn’t come. My
neurons, on the other hand, didn’t stop studying him, inexplicably
attracted by that sad but sweet image, beautiful though so full of
hardness. He wasn’t just fatigued, even suffering; in those moments
of waiting I realized it more. He felt spied too and tried to
protect himself bringing again the centre of the conversation to
me:

"Let's talk about your thesis. I
prepared you some paper: various presentations and other info we
normally use in our communication campaigns, it should be enough to
start. If you need more, don’t hesitate to ask."

"Thank you” I said, surprised; he
noticed and his temper hardened more, why?

"Now you can go home. It's after
six."

"But I didn’t finish."

"Tomorrow everything will be still
there waiting for you, don’t worry."

'Don’t worry', even mum often told
me.

I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, just
the only time I had to:

"Luca told me those who don’t stop
after six have no hopes."

He surly stared at me, then dialled
a phone number, opening the speaker; he let it ring for a long
time, then he hanged up.

"Have you seen? Luca has already
gone. Usually those professing hard working are the first to
disappear."

He smiled at me as Monna Lisa, I
returned more openly.

I got up and I headed to the exit,
still feeling his eyes on me.

"Once out, could you close the
door?"

I executed the command, then I
started again to breathe.

As soon as I turned, I recognized
the boy with the eye colour coordinated to the shirt, the one met
that same morning, the same who was waiting for me.

"Shall we go?"

“Yes, just a moment I take my
things."

"How did it go with Marco?"

“I don’t know Sam, he's ten meters
over me."

"Exactly like I felt. With Fosca it
was different."

"Did you meet Fosca?!"

“Yes, after lunch. She wanted to
see me for half an hour."

Better let it go.

Tuesday, 2nd March 1993

The next day I arrived
early. I tried an anticipatory strategy, before the switchboard and
the door phone devastated me. Even before, however, I wanted to
satisfy my curiosity, having a fast solitary exploration of the
company rooms still deserted, just to get confident at least with
the playing field.

Obviously, neither Fosca nor her
henchwomen did it with me the day before, as I didn’t have the
pleasure to be introduced to my new colleagues, not even to the
closest ones; I discovered the indispensable that morning in a
rush, hitching a ride to an incoming IT colleague, who
spontaneously offered himself as my guide after seeing me wandering
alone for the corridors still out of lights.

The open space where I had been
brutally discharged played the role of connection point between the
two main areas of the floor, which had a sort of symmetric ‘L’
plant, stairs and lifts located in the middle of the two long and
spacious arms.

In the west side, there was the
main entrance for employees and external visitors. There were also
the meeting rooms, located on the street side, and the executive
offices on the other one, in order: royal bathroom and utility
room, the offices of Fosca, Miguel, then the housing of his
numerous servants. The west side ended with ‘Mars room’; its
entrance was at the bottom of the corridor, an impressive meeting
room, not by accident dedicated to the god of the war and still in
progress, intended to welcome the plenary sessions of the corporate
management, fierce day and night clashes, so my dear companion with
even six months of seniority told me.

On the opposite side of the floor,
the east one, worked the equally chaotic commercial and marketing
departments, distributed according to the same logic of the
directional area; first of all the secondary entrance, then on the
internal side the bathroom, the management offices, that is
marketing manager, commercial director, then several rooms for
minor but similar roles. On the street side of the corridor there
were two open spaces for a total of more than twenty desks, the
first for the marketing staff where there was also Sam’s desk, and
another one, mainly for salesmen visiting the floor.

The reception was elsewhere, that
is on the ground floor, as result of Miguel’s indispensable desire
to have the most possible silence around. He guarded the west side,
Fosca included, my new friend said winking, while the east area was
monitored by the equally tough marketing director.

The open space finance was a place
as messy as strategic; those wishing to move from one area to the
other of the floor had two options: to cross Fosca’s soldier camp,
allowing his tenants to be always the most updated employees on the
ongoing managerial dynamics, or going out and taking advantage of
the two twin entrances. That same landing was used by smokers and
lazybones; it wasn’t uncommon that Miguel's sensitive ear looked
angrily in the doorway, immediately demanding the maximum respect
for all the colleagues at work, but above all for himself.